


Ends of the Earth

by taizi



Series: give up the ghost [7]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, American Sign Language, Families of Choice, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: There’s food and company waiting for Mikey just down the hall. He’s safe. Heknowshe’s safe.But he still hurts. His legs are sore, and his head is pounding, and even his arms and hands are covered in what looks like road rash.And he’s still scared. What’s to stop that thing from coming back and taking him again? What’s to stop his friends from throwing themselves into danger they can’t even see, and getting hurt or ending up d-- ending up like Donnie?In fact, a tiny voice in the back of Mikey's mind admits, he's always scared.
Relationships: Donatello & Michelangelo (TMNT), Michelangelo & Raphael (TMNT), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: give up the ghost [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/834927
Comments: 27
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

Mikey’s hands are shaking. He presses them between his knees. 

“You sure we don’t need to stop at a clinic?” Casey asks, glancing at Mikey in the rearview. His voice breaks the uncomfortable silence that settled inside the car. 

“Sure I’m sure,” Mikey tells him hoarsely. Just talking shoots pain through his jaw, and he has to clench his teeth for a second before he can add, “Nothing broken. Jus’ sore.”

He’s staring out the window, counting street signs, _aching_ to be home. Donnie is right next to him, and his presence is as reassuring as it’s always been, but Mikey can’t _feel_ him. 

Mikey is cold in a way he’s never been before, right down to his bones. He’s adrift without the anchoring touch of someone he trusts, someone who can grab him and hold him and keep him from disappearing again, the shape of their hands on his back or his arms or his hair keeping him where he belongs.

Casey lingers for a second longer than he really needs to at the last intersection. But it’s only for a second, and then he’s turning in the direction of Mikey’s apartment, and Mikey texts Leo **_eta 2 minutes._ **

Turns out the text is unnecessary. His friends are waiting in the parking lot. They’ve probably been waiting there since Mikey called nearly half an hour ago, despite the chill. 

Woody is sitting on the front steps of the building, tugging his sleeves over his hands with anxious little yanks, while Leo paces with military precision back and forth through the damp grass. They both jerk their heads up when the station wagon’s headlights pass over them. 

Mikey barely makes it out of the car before Leo’s there, wrenching him into an embrace while the back door just sort of hangs open behind them. 

He’s warm and solid and safe, the farthest possible thing from that frightening creature in that old farmhouse, and the only thing Mikey wants in the whole world is to just… stand here for awhile. 

But he immediately recants that sentiment, because Woody sounds so afraid when he says his name that Mikey draws back immediately to look for him. 

Woody makes this awful, quiet noise. Leo’s eyes are like ice, tilting Mikey’s chin with a careful hand to get a good look at what feels like a pretty ugly bruise.

“I’m okay,” Mikey attempts. 

“‘Course you are,” Woody says with a pale smile. “You’re the best.”

“But you’re frozen solid,” Leo adds. He lets go of Mikey’s chin to rub briskly at his shoulders. “Let’s go inside. We can talk about what happened to you in the morning. Capisce?”

“I capisce.” 

He missed Raph and Casey getting out of the car, but he glances over when their doors snap shut. Casey leans over to shut Mikey’s, too. 

“Mind if we sleep on the pullout?” he asks in the tone of someone assuming their welcome. It’s how he used to ask Donnie if he could stay over. He hasn’t used that tone with Mikey in nearly two years. 

It feels like an olive branch. Mikey slides a surreptitious glance at Donnie, who is watching his old friends with approval and something else-- something bittersweet and affectionate. He smiles at Mikey and nods. Whether it’s because he truly doesn’t mind their company or he just wants Mikey to feel safe, it’s impossible to tell. 

“Sure,” Mikey croaks. He’s careful to avoid Raph’s eyes when he looks back at Casey. “Leo and Woody usually stay in my room anyway.”

Leo doesn’t surrender Mikey for even a second, one strong arm curled tight around his shoulders, as if _daring_ any invisible enemy to try and snatch Mikey away again. Woody touches Mikey’s hand tentatively once they’re all crammed into the elevator, as if uncertain whether or not his touch will be welcome. Mikey twists his wrist and clasps Woody's hand immediately. It seems to make them both feel better.

Donnie takes point. The lights all hum a little brighter as he passes by. The rest of the trip to Mikey’s front door takes about a minute, but it feels like the longest trip of Mikey’s life. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, he _hurts._ His legs are wobbly with over-exertion, and his feet are sore, and his whole head is pounding. 

He must have walked those forty-some miles to that old farmhouse when that grudge possessed him, for all that he doesn’t remember it. Thinking about that blank space in his memory is enough to make his heart beat faster, so he does what he does best: he compartmentalizes. 

Puts everything out of his mind except the most immediate, harmless things: relief that he gave his friends spare house keys, as Woody leans in and clumsily unlocks the door with his left hand. Affection as Klunk immediately crosses the room to thread around Mikey’s ankles, and Archimedes wags her tail at Donnie so hard her whole body wiggles. The sense of safety as the door closes behind them and Raph slides the deadbolt in place.

“Home sweet home,” Mikey says. It comes out a croak. 

_Shower,_ Donnie signs. _Warm up first. Hot shower will make--_ Here, Donnie pauses, obviously stumped on a word, and then finger-spells, _B-R-U-I-S-E-S worse. But will help with pain._

They’ve been learning ASL together for the past couple months, through an online course. It’s nice to be able to talk to Donnie again without a phone between them.

“I’m gonna shower,” Mikey announces to the room at large. His voice seesaws out like a rusty gate. He rubs at his throat with a grimace and tries again. “Can someone order food?”

“On it,” Casey says, sliding his phone out of his back pocket with the hand not busy scritching Archie behind the ears. “That Thai place on oak street is open till like three AM.”

Donnie is lingering in the room despite the painful proximity to Raph and Casey, watchful and protective.

He catches Mikey’s eye and signs, _It’s okay._ He smiles, and adds the name sign he came up with, the letter M and then the sign for 'sun' _. Mikey. It’s okay._

And with that, for the first time since Mikey woke up in the farmhouse, he figures it must be. 

Woody squeezes his hand before letting him go. Leo holds on for a second longer. 

Klunk keeps pace beside him when he heads down the hall, the little bell on her collar jingling merrily. They stop in Mikey’s bedroom first for clean clothes, and then move through Donnie’s room to the half-bath in there. The standing shower is about all Mikey feels capable of right now. If he has to clamber over the tub in the big bathroom, he’ll probably fall on his face. 

Klunk hops up onto the bathroom counter to supervise while Mikey starts running water to get it hot. She settles into a loaf, green eyes alert, as if she’s decided to take up the mantle of sentry. Mikey smiles at her, rubbing her soft orange forehead with the backs of his fingers.

“Don’t you worry about me,” he tells her. “I always come home.”

When he peels off his dirty shirt, Mikey catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and almost swears. Leo says swearing doesn’t suit him. But in this case, Mikey would be well within his rights.

One side of his face is entirely black and blue. It’s no wonder his jaw is so sore. What did that ghost do to him, bounce his head off a brick wall?

He winces his way out of his jeans, shaky legs protesting the exercise, and then proceeds to spend about ten minutes standing listlessly under the spray from the showerhead, letting the water bill rack up because it feels so good to chase that persistent cold away. Only then, and only because he seriously doubts his ability to stand upright for much longer, Mikey scrubs coconut shampoo into his hair and squirts too much body wash into a flannel he only drops twice.

Mikey feels scoured when he steps out onto the mat, and dries mechanically. Manages to wrestle himself into a long sleeve T-shirt and sweatpants, and then sits on the lid of the toilet and rests his head against the side of the counter.

The room is warm and fragrant and full of steam. There’s food and company waiting for him just down the hall. He’s safe. He _knows_ he’s safe.

But he still hurts. His legs are sore, and his head is pounding, and even his arms and hands are covered in what looks like road rash. 

And he’s still scared. What’s to stop that thing from coming back and taking him again? What’s to stop his friends from throwing themselves into danger they can’t even see, and getting hurt or ending up d-- ending up like Donnie?

In fact, a tiny voice in the back of Mikey's mind admits, he's always scared. 

Klunk is purring by his ear, projecting comfort, but he doesn’t lift his head. He buries it a little farther instead. He’s still shaking, even though he isn’t cold anymore.

There are two quick knocks on the door. Mikey’s about to say “come in,” and then realizes his face is wet with tears, and chokes back the invite just in time. He snatches up the terrycloth handtowel laying by the sink and scrubs at his eyes with it, calling out, “I’m coming-- just a sec!”

The door opens. It wasn’t locked.

Mikey finds himself looking up at Raphael, of all people, who lingers in the doorway as if he’s unsure of his welcome. 

“Hey, kid,” he says quietly. “Can we talk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halloween tradition MUST include raising this series from the dead (its only september but i dont care)


	2. Chapter 2

To say that Raph feels uncomfortable is an understatement. He hasn’t stepped foot inside Don’s room since probably a week after the funeral. It hurt to see the rumpled duvet on the bed, still unmade from the last time Donnie slept there, and the textbooks spread across the desk, and the purple hoodie tossed over the back of the computer chair, this cluttered, comfortable, lived-in space that wasn’t lived-in anymore. That wouldn’t be lived-in ever again.

It still hurts. Even though things have moved since then— the books have been shuffled around, the bed is made, that purple hoodie is more Mikey’s than Donnie’s anymore— Raph feels like his chest is caught in a vice. 

But Mikey is in front of him, face pale where it isn’t blotchy from recent tears, that awful bruise stretching from chin to temple. He’s shaken, as much as he tried to play it off for his friends’ sakes. He’s scared. 

And that overrides everything else. Raph can power through this grief that’s still raw and aching, that probably always will be. 

“C’mere,” he mutters, and puts out his hands, half-expecting Mikey to blow past him. He’d deserve that much at least. But the younger man doesn’t hesitate. He steps out of the bathroom and right into Raph’s open arms, as if it hasn’t been _months_ since the last time they fucking hugged. 

They had different parents, they grew up in different houses, but this kid has always been his little brother. 

He remembers back in junior high, how Don kept blowing them off when they’d invite him out. It wasn’t that he was hanging out with anyone else, he always just had to go home. They were free to tag along to his house, to make plans to sleepover at his on the weekend or do homework with him on school nights, but he turned down every offer to go to the drive-in, or out to eat, or pile on Casey’s stupid waterbed for a brain-dead afternoon of binge-watching Netflix. 

April called him on it, in her gentle, implacable way, while Raph and Casey stood to one side and worried that smart, capable, indestructible Donatello was outgrowing them. 

He wasn’t. He rubbed the back of his head, apologetic for all that he didn’t actually apologize. He told them, “I don’t want Mikey coming home to an empty house.”

Their dad died when they were young. Their mom started drinking not long after. This was common knowledge between the four of them, for all that Don didn’t bring it up very often. 

Mikey was a sun-bright fixture in all of their lives, and Raph had memories of holding his hands as he was learning how to walk, of crowing with six-year-old joy when the bright-eyed baby babbled his name. 

In what universe would they have wanted Don to leave Mikey home alone? April and Casey looked equally as dumbfounded.

Casey blurted, “Why didn’t you just say so? Bring him along. We’re not going _clubbing_ , we’ll probably end up ordering pizza and playing UNO.”

It was a wordless, unanimous agreement. They were family, no matter what their birth certificates said. 

And Raph has really failed this kid. He’s struggling to swallow the reality of just how badly he failed him. _Some protector I am,_ he thinks bitterly. 

Drawing back, he steers Mikey toward the bed, and sternly says, “Sit.”

Mikey sits. 

Raph drags the computer chair over in front of him. The first aid kit is sitting open on the nightstand already; he hauled it with him from the kitchen. 

It’s nothing like the cutesy little kits that come in a plastic tote for about twenty bucks at CVS, with a handful of bandaids and antiseptic wipes. This one is a well-stocked, heavy-duty toolbox organized to an engineering student’s mathematical specifications. 

Something in Raph’s chest gives a heady pang to see this tiny, unthinking little bit of proof that Donnie is still around. 

They sit in silence as Raph picks through the supplies. They’ve been here half a dozen times before, a younger Mikey and a much younger Raph, but it’s never felt quite like this. 

“Eyes up,” Raph says. Obligingly, Mikey tilts his face, and winces at the bite of antiseptic on torn skin. 

Beneath the impressive bruising he’s wearing like a tasteless carnival mask, there’s an irritated abrasion, like he was dragged against asphalt for a minute or two. It’s on his palms, too, and crawling up his wrists to near his elbows. 

When Raph’s hand passes over the inside of Mikey’s arm, pressing carefully to make sure nothing is twisted or broken, he can feel the kid’s sickly-quick pulse rabbiting away. 

“Is it always like this?” Raph asks gruffly. Suddenly he can’t bring himself to look Mikey in the face. He thinks of how clumsy Mikey was when he was little, how Donnie always despaired of him coming home with scrapes and bruises, or the occasional sprain. 

He thinks of that sunny December morning in Mikey’s hospital room, telling him that Donnie was gone, and the incomprehension that flitted through Mikey’s bright brown eyes. “He was just here,” the kid had said, too out of it to be anything other than painfully transparent, drugged to the gills and concussed and wanting his big brother back, “I saw him.”

He thinks of the tense car ride away from a burning farmhouse, the footprint of an overheated cellphone lingering on Raph’s palm, Mikey sitting in the backseat by himself but not really alone.

There’s a brief silence. Klunk jumps onto the bed and flops down, a long orange loaf pressed against the length of Mikey’s thigh. Out of Raph’s periphery, he watches Mikey’s free hand gravitate over automatically to pet her. 

“No,” Mikey finally says. His voice is hoarse. “That’s never happened before.”

Raph looks up at him. “Is that the truth?”

It’s like watching a door slam closed. Mikey’s face shuts down. He’s right in front of Raph, warm and whole beneath his hands, but he might as well be a hundred miles away. 

Fuck. He’s already fucking this up. 

Growing up, Mikey never told them a lie. But they never believed him so eventually he just… stopped telling the truth. “A ghost pushed me down the stairs” became “I fell down the stairs” and his older siblings were all happier for it. About time Mikey grew up.

He learned how to tell them what they needed to hear, but that’s not on him. And if Raph wants to— to fix this, to be his brother again, he can’t start with accusations. In fact, there’s one big, huge, obvious, glowing _neon_ fucking sign pointing at where he ought to start. And now that he’s already put his foot in his mouth, it’s easier to take a step back and try again. 

“Sorry,” Raph mutters. He sits back, the chair squeaking a little. It’s the loudest thing in the room. “I’m sorry, kid. Mike.” 

Mikey blinks once, and then twice, and looks as though he has absolutely no idea what the protocol is for accepting an apology from Raphael. His eyes slide sideways, to a point above and behind Raph’s head. Raph wonders if Donnie is in the room, watching his pathetic excuse of a best friend do even _more_ to hurt and alienate his precious little brother. 

“It’s okay,” Mikey says, even though it clearly _isn’t_. He’s doing that thing he does, that he’s always done, where he pushes everything far away so he doesn’t have to feel it. “I know it’s… hard to believe.” 

_Leo believes you,_ Raph thinks but doesn’t say. _Woodrow believes you. I’ve known you your whole life, and where the hell was I?_

He remembers a twelve-year-old Michelangelo blinking through tears as April and her brand-new learner’s permit drove them to the hospital at well over the speed limit, and Raph tried to hold his broken arm steady in the backseat. 

“What the hell happened? You were supposed to go straight home,” Casey had shouted from the passenger seat, all noisy and sharp in his caring in a way that Raph fundamentally understood. He had only winced a little when Donnie leaned up from Mikey’s other side and socked him hard in the shoulder for raising his voice. 

“Waiting on an answer, Mikey,” April had said, eyes darting anxious glances into the rearview. 

And Mikey had bit his lip and shuddered with pain when the car bounced over a pothole, but he hadn’t answered right away. There was nowhere to run from four worried, expectant big siblings crammed into a speeding car with him. Donnie’s face was pinched and pale, but even he didn’t swoop in to save Mikey that time. 

They had driven nearly a full mile before Mikey finally said, “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I just… I fell.” 

That was probably the first time he’d ever lied. Raph wishes he could go back in time to that moment and ask what really happened. What really hurt him. How long it took him to feel safe again after that. If he _ever_ did. 

“I’ll listen this time,” Raph blurts. It causes Mikey to jump a little, his eyes round. “I know I’m like fifteen years too late, but if you— if you want— if you’ll give me another chance, I’ll do better from now on. I’ll be here for you.”

 _Don, if you’re listening,_ he thinks wildly, not for the first time and not for the last, _I’m trying. I’m really trying. I don't know if I can try any harder._

“Raph,” Mikey says. He sounds bewildered. Even though he has ninety-nine things to be angry or bitter about, he says, “You’ve been here the whole time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry its been MONTHS, i didnt mean for it to take this long, life just sucker punched me in the solar plexus and im still catching my breath


End file.
